Once again Anna, you have given us a clear, compassionate and sensitive view on the ways in which abuse affects the lives of survivors. I don’t personally believe that procrastination affects only those of us who have been abused because it is something that can be present in the lives of everyone to some extent. But here we are talking about how chaos affects those of us who have experienced severe and traumatic abuse and how procrastination manifests itself in a way that makes a survivor’s life even more difficult than it already is.
As Anna Waldherr says: “In the aftermath of emotional abuse, victims may try desperately to be perfect — at home, at school, at work — in the hope of winning the approval denied us as children. Of course, we should not have to “win” love at all. It should be freely given, certainly to children. As for procrastination, the longer we put off a task, the greater the likelihood we will fail to complete it “perfectly”, perhaps fail to complete it at all”.

“Most of my life has been spent circling or avoiding important things that I need to do and I get very frustrated with myself. Sometimes, I find myself trying to locate passports or important papers at the 11th hour, when I’ve had ample time to deal with matters like this.”

-Marie Williams

Procrastination and perfectionism are patterns of behavior well familiar to abuse victims, twin destructive forces that have deep meaning for those who have suffered abuse.

We invest the necessary (the “shoulds” and “musts” of life) with the power to annihilate us, or at least demolish the fragile image we have of ourselves. Then we defer, delay, and defer again – certain that we will…

Warning: this post contains references to rap which might not be everyone’s cup of tea. But I hope this will not prevent you from reading to the end.

You may remember that in my last post I spoke about agoraphobia and how it impacted my life. Not to go on at length, but to explain how Professor Green (a British rapper, not a University professor) helped me in my own healing process, I would like to share my thoughts with you. I also want to touch on talking therapy/counselling which I really believed saved me during this uncertain and debilitating period of my life.

I was at home watching ‘Loose Women’* on television, and Professor Green was a guest on the programme. Professor Green is a well-known rapper who catapulted to fame in recent years. He is a young man who has documented how his early life impacted the way he is today and how his music reflects this. He grew up on a council estate in London, mainly raised by his grandmother. His father was absent for most of his life. This affected him in many negative ways, but he rose above this to become an international rap star. Professor Green’s father took his own life shortly after he had become reconciled with his son many years later and after he [Green] had become famous. This devastated him and he has since recorded a television programme about suicide in which he speaks openly about his love for his grandmother (who stabilised his childhood) and the impact his father’s untimely death had on his own life.

To get to the point, Professor Green spoke about counselling on Loose Women. He talked about how it helped him come to terms with his ‘demons’. I was incredibly impressed and touched at how openly this young man spoke about his own experiences with mental health issues that I listened with more interest than usual. Having my own mental health issues (PTSD, chronic anxiety and agoraphobia) his thoughts resonated with me.

Here comes the rapping! Those of you who have had the ‘pleasure’ of watching last year’s ‘X Factor’ will get a better feel of what I’d like you to do if you watched Honey G’s performance as a contestant. Honey G would rap saying:

“When I say Honey, you say G”, and this would be repeated many times, depending on how the audience received it. It went down really well. If you like that sort of thing. It’s a matter of taste. So here is my version:

When I say: ‘Professor’ you say: ‘Green’
Me: When I say Professor
You say: Green!
Me: When I say Professor
You say: ‘Green’

I was sittin’ in my home
All alone
got no friends
To call my own
Wanting someone to pick up the ‘phone
give me a call
so I don’t drown
In my sorrows
On my own

Me: When I say Professor
You say: Green!
Me: When I say Professor
You say: Green!

Mental health
has got a bad rap
That’s why I’m gonna
Put it on the map!
Shout it loud
and shout it clear
Mental health
There’s nothing to fear!

Me: When I say Professor
You say: Green
x2

I hope you managed to get a rhythm going. That helps! I hope Lady G and Tareau weren’t the only ones rapping along with me. Were you rapping Hariod? Anna?

Seriously, Professor Green was instrumental in getting me back on the road to recovery. He not only talked about how counselling helped him in his darkest periods, but he went on to say that although his situation was much improved, he still used counselling as therapy whenever he felt he needed it. And consequently, he was at present in therapy. Those words propelled me into action. If Professor Green was on daytime television, advocating counselling and he was not ashamed or embarrassed, what say me?

After the programme, I immediately went on-line to research counsellors in my area. I was very fortunate to find someone who has been incredibly helpful and who has allowed me to see that my case is not hopeless. That was over one year ago and I haven’t looked back since. Thanks Professor Green! I am not going to suggest that a few trips to a counsellor will make everything better. It takes time. It takes a willingness to partake in your own healing. It takes courage. It takes persistence. It takes faith. Often time, it can seem there is no light at the end of the tunnel. I’d like to encourage those who feel that there is no way out, that I found mine, and you can too.

~ Marie Williams 2017

* ‘Loose Women’ is a day-time television programme in which a panel of women discuss current topics.
– Final Part 3 to follow

I was overwhelmed by the response I received from writing about Florence. There was such an outpouring of love and compassion on a scale which I had not expected. All of those amazing, wonderful voices that spoke to my post, I want to say a very deep and heartfelt thanks from the bottom of my heart. Thank you so much. I would love it if Florence could have shared in the love and compassion too but sadly she is no longer here. But that does not mean that because she is not here to hear all those wonderful sentiments, she cannot share the love. Florence was my mother. And because I am her daughter a piece of her, a very valuable and precious part of her lives on in me, and so because she did not have a voice while she was a victim of domestic violence, I hope by sharing with you a very poignant time in her life, her voice will speak once again.
Image: Source unknown

Florence, my mother, your once tortured soul I hope rests in peace and I hope that you don’t mind sharing that wonderful day you had in the Holy Land shortly before you left us. I found your journal in amongst your things, and I read about the amazing time you had. You didn’t have many amazing days for longer than I care to say, sadly for you, but I know you treasured life and all it had to give despite facing many dark days. This light-filled day was a blessing to me when I read it and so many were saddened by your experience, that I would like them to know that you experienced joy and you were able to record it so that I would one day find it and share it with others who care for you.

Florence in her own words:

“The tour of the Holy Land is a most exciting and moving experience. The Bible is made alive. It surpassed all my expectations.

During my grown-up years it was always my desire to visit the Holy Land – Christ’s birthplace. Oh I wish I had been there when He walked among men.

Now that I have gone there, I was really overwhelmed by the vastness of the land and the awesomeness of it. I have seen a lot, and I am certain that there was much more to be seen. But the place that had the greatest impact on me was the Garden Tomb where Jesus was supposed to have been laid after His death. I entered the tomb and saw the imprint of His body and as I emerged I glanced upon the wall and saw the words: “He is not here. He is risen” and then I suddenly realised that my Redeemer lives and for a moment I was transfixed.

Then we began to wander through the Garden and the visit was terminated by Holy Communion and prayer. I never experienced such peace in my life. All the tiredness had left me and I felt so relaxed I had to tell my experience to my room-mate when I returned that evening to the hotel. I am so glad I was able to make the journey to Jerusalem because what I saw and heard will linger with me for the rest of my life. We returned home on the 24th February 1996 and our lives have never been the same since that week that was spent in the Holy Land. We stayed at the King’s Hotel in Jerusalem”.

I am pleased to have given my mother a voice. So many of us are unable to use that most precious of gifts for whatever reason. It is such a powerful instrument and with power comes responsibility. The responsibility to use our voices wisely.

Four walls, three windows, two doorsteps front and back, one roof. Zero! Countdown to loss and a loss so profound it has no bounds. Too difficult to contemplate the rate at which this loss creates the fate of anyone of us. Because we are not immune, to any of the fates that wait unseen ready to pounce without fore-warning. Crouching like a tiger, amongst the foliage of life, breathing soft, aloft the cares, concerns and worries of it’s prey, it leaps and you become the very thing you toiled and sweated to avoid: the homeless person, the bag lady, the tramp.

When you lose your home, to a great extent, you lose yourself. Your identity forged on the furnace of the place from which you come. You lose yourself. You lose your rights. You lose your body, becoming visibly invisible for others see you but choose not to acknowledge you, because you don’t have an address. An address, sought after, a number placed upon a door, a number which identifies you and shouts: this is where you can find me on any given day at any given hour, for this is where I live.

Paula* talking on the radio, loud and clear for all to hear. No longer a statistic but a person with a place to call her own. When she opened her front door, I can’t tell you how her spirit soared. Soared to heights it’s hard to describe. She speaks of stepping in the shower in which she spent over an hour, no water saving there! An hour in the shower, is a luxury for a woman who lost the power to shower for longer than she cares to say. Sleeping on a pillow became the stuff of dreams. She slept for as long as she wanted, her head resting on a pillow. The joy, the pleasure to sleep at leisure when one has slept on a cold pavement with fresh air for a pillow and fresh air for a blanket cannot be denied.

To clear the streets and house the homeless they talked of Bills and Parliament. Talk of cross-party support was vital: to get the Bill through Parliament. This becomes a burning issue. Reasons for homelessness are mooted. Domestic violence cited and indicted. Domestic violence stands accused, for who would choose to lose their home? Who would choose to lose their identity? Who would prefer to walk the streets, alone, afraid, if Domestic violence at first charming, so disarming, becoming outraged, impossible to assuage had not moved in and changed the locks on their front door?

~ MEW

*Dedicated to “Paula” who spoke of her plight of homelessness and the part domestic violence played on BBC Radio 4, in London. Enjoy your shower, Paula!

Florence not the place in Italy. A real person, an essentially good person but flawed nonetheless. I cannot say what prompted me to write today of Florence although I had been thinking about her for a while and I wanted to share with all the beauty of a soul who suffered more than words can say, and who dwelt each day in turmoil. You see Florence was a victim of domestic violence. And Florence came to believe that that was all she deserved. She did not know how, could not know how, was unable to show the scars, the tears, her fears, instead wearing these garments like a beautiful gown thrown carefully about her person. She paid attention to this outward show: the fashion show of the broken.

Others looked but could not see her pain for she wore those garments well. Tears like a brooch pinned to her heart, covering the sorrow. Fears, a multi-coloured scarf tossed about her neck so those finger-marks a cruel necklace, red and raw were concealed a good deal of the time, even when it was not cold. Florence’s smile beguiled even those of a perspicacious nature. Even they were fooled by that smile, a smile which said all is well, but belied the sadness coiled tightly, so unsightly for the world to see.

Misfortune was the realm in which she lived, a place which foiled her every plan to escape the brutality of domestic violence. Attacks were the nature of the cruel game played out in this particular domain. Florence played the game but the rules were skewed. Skewed in favour of her husband. Her husband who she had taken for better or for worse, but it would have been better had the worse been better, but the worse was worse and featured strongly in this union if you could call it that.

Personally, I would not call it a union, but for Florence her wedding vows were sacred and she had promised and promises were not made to be broken. But her bones could be. Surely she had not promised that?

Today’s assignment, write a letter to your 14 year old self, seemed easy, but on second thoughts I am not so sure. It certainly seemed the easiest option. There were so many choices: some that I thought I could do, and others that I thought I wouldn’t know where to start. Sometimes I think when there are too many choices, it’s very difficult to decide which option to go for. Better, when it’s either this or that really.

Dear Marie

Yes, you, come on now, try not to let things get you down too much. I promise life will get better. I know that you’ve had it really rough and I know that you wish your first suicide attempt at age 11 had worked, but it didn’t and that’s because you are here for a reason. I know that you can’t see that now, because all around you is chaos, but you are a divine spirit and you need to know that.

Try not to internalise the pain. I know that you feel that you have no-one to confide in, but you do. Speak to your grandfather. I know he is no longer here. I know he died in 1959, but his spirit is with you. Speak your pain and he will hear and he will try to smooth the path for you and make life a little easier. I know you’re thinking, “rubbish!” But seriously, he came to help you that painful night when you were 11. It was him you saw, when he hovvered over you. It was not a figment of your imagination. He came to make sure those pills did not work.

You’re destined for great things Marie. Look at Oprah Winfrey, Maya Angelou – they suffered too but look how they have turned their lives around. They have have used their abusive pasts to build a solid framework in which to change their lives for the better. OK, so you’re never going to be Oprah or Maya with their very public profile, but you will be Marie blogging on WordPress, “sharing, hoping to inspire and motivate” others.

I know you think I’m crazy, and that this will never happen. Yes at 14, with a mother who clearly finds you an irritation and a father who gets a kick out of battering you, sending you to school with bruises on your face and body, with the explanation “If they ask you what has happened to you, tell them that you fell over some wire in the backyard”, makes the above paragraph seem like the ramblings of a mad woman, but honestly, you will survive.

People that you don’t know now, will be reading your poetry and will write to you telling you how much they love what you have written. People all over the world in France, Austria, USA, Australia will be commenting on your poetry.

There will be something called the Internet which will allow you to connect with others in a way that you can’t now. The world will be a smaller place in terms of contact and there will be vast opportunities for you to grasp and take advantage of.

I love you Marie and I want to take care of you in the only way I can. This is why I am writing to you, aged 14. I want to give you hope. I want to let you know that I am there for you.

This amazing poem at the end of this post: “A Princess on Every Street” by Kendall F. Person has made me focus on the real problems faced today by children. What insight! How very well articulated and more to the point how very true. So many of us are the product of such a sometimes cruel world. The third verse particularly resonates with me. So many small girls (“princesses”) and boys (princes) walk among us feeling the pain of abuse, childhoods stolen, unable to speak of their pain because they are children. Many can only articulate their pain well into old age or perhaps never at all. Stolen lives – what an absolute tragedy! Today let us think about those princes and “princesses” and allow our thoughts to heal their wounds. A Question often asked by the abused are “Why (Did you hurt me)? They struggle with the pain for years “When Pain Came to Stay”. They don’t understand how to deal with the “monster” – their abuser. I hope that my poems will touch the hearts of many of you today.

Five Stroke Fourteen (or Look what you’ve made me do to you)

The monster sits beside me

He has a caring expression on his face

“Look what you’ve made me do to you”, he says

But I shrink from his imminent embrace

Because I know

Deep within my spirit

He seeks to control me

The monster touches my bruised and battered face

He did it

In a fit

Of rage!

His hunger for control to assuage

Because I know

Deep within my spirit

He seeks to control me

And control me he does

Because he knows

That I won’t tell

And I won’t yell

“Monster!”

Because I know

Deep within my spirit

He seeks to control me

Slowly, slowly I come to realise

I am nothing, but a punch-bag in his eyes

A thing of beauty to despise

But now I bravely rise

Casting off the fears

Releasing uncontrollable tears

Standing tall and proud

No longer wearing sorrow as a shroud

I am free, free to be Me

Copyright Marie Williams – July 2009

When Pain Came to Stay

I am old and grey, and wiser now,

But does the pain go away?

No it stays another day.

Why does it stay for another day

When I want this pain to go away?

This pain has been my friend

He moved in with me many years ago

I don’t remember asking him to stay

In fact I barely knew his name

But he took the best room in the house

I was only 5, when Pain knocked on the door

“Who are you”, I said, no screamed!

A kick, then a punch, and my body flew

Through the air, Pain was not happy

To leave it there, He needed to leave his mark

Seemed like hours and hours

The hurt and the struggle

Knocking me, knocking me

Hurting me, the tears and the fears

Were born that day

And how that child pain grew

From strength to strength

And day to day, what could I do

To make pain pack his bags and leave

So that I could be so happy and free

I’ll never know why Pain chose me

I guess that will always be a mystery

All I know is that it fed off me

And almost brought me to death’s door

The day pain came to stay with me

At last Pain has decided to go

And will I miss Him? Oh gosh no!

But am I stronger for his stay; did I triumph after all?

Put it this way, the locks to that door have been changed

And Pain no longer holds a key

Copyright Marie Williams – March 2009

WHY (Did you hurt me)?

What is the question?

Why do you ask the question?

I ask because I want to know

The answer means that I can go

To a place, a place of peace

A place where I’ll be able to rest

Safe in the knowledge that at last I

Can say I know the reason why

Is it important to ask?

You will say

Or is it better to know the why

How will it improve your day?

You say

Do you think the hurts will dissolve?

At last will you gain some resolve

Will the problem go away?

Or will it be the same anyway?

Now you confuse me

It’s as if you abuse me

By appearing to challenge

The extent of the damage

Why do you not see?

That the innermost core

Of my tortured soul

Seeks only to know why it pains me

Seems best not to ask the reason why

Best to let the problem die

Best to move forward

And that will be your reward!

A Princess on Every Street
by Kendall F. Person

There is a princess on every street.
We know who they are by their smiling faces,
and silver braces.
We see the pretty dresses that they wear,
and the adorable ponytails arranged of their hair.
We see them skipping down the walk,
headed off to school,
and ready for the world
because they are daddy’s little girl.

There is a princess on every street.
In the broken down apartment buildings,
and in the houses that blot the streets.
We know who they are,
even if they rarely come outdoors
by the songs they sing,
like The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow,
and other wishful things.

There is a princess on every street. Living with abusers
intent on robbing them of a childhood and a future.
We know who they are from the sadness in their eyes
and the bruises on their faces,
that hide the truth in memorized excuses.
We watch them fail their classes
lost concentration, partly to blame.
We feel them close down, isolating themselves
blocking out the world, but still living with the pain.

Clean and dirty, homeless and rich.
Every color of the rainbow,
in every country on earth.
There is a princess on every street.
And the little girls that do not know this,
please deliver to them this message
and let them know…. they are a Princess too.

The Neighborhood Proudly Presents

‘Our Featured Presentation: When the Abuse Stopsa collaborative work with a survivor and her supportive husband